A Question of Devotion
by Deeplove
Summary: She was the rabbit, he was the fox. He was a bitter priest, she an abused girl looking towards the God that he had turned against. Aching from the angst; longing for a happy ending. AU, rated M for a reason. Please review!
1. Amáram

_sac·ri·lege (skr-lj)_

_n._

_Desecration, profanation, misuse, or theft of something sacred._

What is sin?

Sin was many things. It could take form in guilt, lust, greed, and a number of other faults found in each and every person His father used to describe it to him as the feelings a man felt for a woman. A man's duty lay first with God, then with himself, and then with his family. But to Cesare, what is sin?

Sin is a _hindrance_.

It had no place in his world. He is the Master of his world, his own Creator. The only limits that a man had in place were the limits he set for himself. For Cesare, he had no limits. Anything in the world was for the taking, if he desired it.

Nothing was _sacred_.

And yet he still falls to his knees in front of His image. He still bows his head in obedience, lips moving silently in prayer. It was the life that his father had sacrificed him to. Rodrigo sought to contain him; to expel the sin of ambition that coursed through Cesare's veins.

Why was this? Why did he feel compelled to show his devotion? Was his desire to make a mockery of everything that he was supposed to believe in? Or was it that in the corner of his withered heart, there remained the ashes of belief?

When he had been a child, his mother had urged him to devote himself to the Church. She hadn't seen a need for him to make friends with others or engage in something beyond his studies. No, he would find his life in the Church, in prayer, in silence. That was his path, the only path that he would ever know in his life.

In his family, there was a hierarchy to the order of what they could be devoted to. His devotion was to God; his father's to his family; and his brother Juan's devotion lay with himself.

His father was content.

So was his brother.

Was Cesare?

He felt _longing_.

There were times when he thought it would consume him. The fierce waves of it crashed against him; shrieking with envy. Juan was allowed to do what he wanted. Juan was allowed to choose his own path. Juan wasn't required to bend before Him as Cesare had to.

Why?

Why couldn't it have been him? Fury took him then, embracing him as any lover would do. Fury drove Cesare to the depths of madness. He would never forgive the golden child, the beloved child Juan. His father had chosen to turn his back on Cesare; loving another instead. Cesare would never forgive him for this. He had denied him of the freedom that was every child's right. The freedom to choose their own path in life.

When the feelings had receded, Cesare was left with a multitude of bland emotions. What remained? Boredom, discontent, along with an emptiness that crushed against his chest.

Everything was the _same_.

His footsteps echoed through the chapel as Cesare entered the confession. The overwhelming scent of incense assaulted his senses; Cesare's eyes watering slightly. Slowly he raised his hand to brush away the water running down his cheeks.

It was a scent that he should have been familiar with by then. Twenty seven years spent in churches, it was the smell of home. At least the scent of the place that he was required to consider _home_.

'What will today bring?' He thought to himself; his lips pulling back into a mocking smile that appeared to be more of a grimace.

Leaning back against the velvet lining of the chair, Cesare stifled a yawn. Would it be another man who had found the pleasures of the flesh; now coming to confess his shame? Or would it be an old woman wishing for peace before the end came?

Toying with a stray curl, he sighed lightly. He should know, shouldn't he? He had spent hours upon hours in confession as a child. It had been a peaceful place for him. Once it had been a place where he felt he belonged.

"_Father! Father, I must confess my sins." Studiously he would bend his head; holding his entwined hands in his lap as he had seen his mother do before. _

"_And what sins have you committed, my child?"_

"_The sin of envy." Juan's voice had flitted over to the confession room. "You should see how he looks at Lucrezia, father. He looks at her as if he would undress her with his very eyes. But Lucrezia looks at another that way instead of him." He had chuckled after that; along with his father's hoarse laugh. _

He had never forgotten that laugh.

Shame had filled him then. Absolute shame. Because it was true.

It didn't matter how many psalms he learned or how many subjects he excelled at. Cesare could speak English, Latin, French, and Spanish. Juan could stumble his way through Spanish and stutter through English. He could quote the Lord's Prayer and yet hardly knew how to say the rosary.

None of it mattered in the end. Juan would always be their father Rodrigo's favorite child. He was the beloved one, not Cesare. Cesare was to be the beloved son of God, the lamb that needed to be guided by his Shepard. That was why the family denied him their love.

All except for Lucrezia. She had been his savior; his support when he couldn't take it any longer. She would always be there with a cup of hot chocolate or providing a comfortable hug. Unlike Juan, he could be _her_ role model. He could be _her_ hero.

His sister Lucrezia was two years younger than he was. Ever since birth, he had adored her. It was sin in its purest form, disguised as love. In Cesare's mind there was little difference between the two. Didn't the Lord say to love? Was that not the heart of the Bible?

Vanozza, their mother, had always seemed to keep Cesare away from Lucrezia. When he was around her, there would always be a barrier placed. Never could he touch her around their mother; despite the ache in Cesare's chest to run his fingers through her hair or see the blush creep across her cheeks as he whispered sweet nothings into her ear.

As long as he could be with her, this was enough. She was his own paradise; the sun that illuminated his shadowed world. She was his as he was hers. They would be together like Adam and Eve, their love the apple.

Until Juan sought to covet what was rightfully Cesare's. Juan had snatched Lucrezia from him while still in the playroom. When he had reached a certain age, Rodrigo had Cesare appointed as a helper in the Church that resided in the corner of their neighborhood.

From that day, Cesare was forced to spend time away from _her_. While he was forced to be on his knees begging for salvation, she would be in _his_ company. Juan delighted in this fact; taking full advantage of the situation. No longer did Lucrezia dare to look at him; no longer shyly glancing over her shoulder towards him.

He had turned his rage inwards. If his father denied him what he coveted, he had reasoned attempting to ask the Holy Father to grant him his wish.

"_One smile, please. Just one glance; one blush; anything Father." He had prostrated himself before the cross, begging for a trade. If only he would be given Lucrezia, he would give his soul to the Lord._

It began with seven lashes.

Seven lashes representing each of the most enrapturing, captivating sins denied to all souls. Surely the Holy Father would understand the need to be loved? Cesare needed her. How could he be denied her? He had already been denied a place in his family, why deny him the one longing he had?

Then it became twelve.

It continued each day; increasing just a bit more. There was a part of him that rejoiced with each lash. Every lash was a strike against Juan; a strike against his father; even a strike against his mother. He would show them all. The Holy Father would not deny him his wish.

With as much devotion as Cesare was showing, surely he would be denied nothing, nothing at all. And yet, unselfishly he only asked for this one thing. This one absolute desire to be granted; to come to fruition of taking Lucrezia as his. With his back stained with crimson, he would fall to the side. The rope would scatter to one side; his breath coming from him in tiny gasps.

_And still he was denied. _

There was a kinder scent, one that was akin to roses. It caressed his nose, Cesare starting as his attention was returned from his nostalgic daydream. Reaching for the bible that was kept on its own stand next to his chair; he balanced it in his lap.

Through the lattice he could see another; the features undistinguishable through the screen. It was designed to be this way, allowing the person to make their confessions privately. Cesare was only allowed to hear their voice; the only feature allowed to Cesare.

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned."


	2. Rubor

Every day she sought salvation.

It was her fault, her father had always insisted on reminding her. It was her fault that her mother had committed suicide. The blame was not to be lain on the alcohol that pumped through his veins or the sin that he entrenched himself in when he spent the nights with whores. It was _her_ fault.

It hadn't been her choice.

After watching years of abuse towards her mother, Mary hadn't been able to stand it any longer. During one of their fights when Mary had been hidden in the closet while her mother stood protectively in front of the closet door. He was screaming that he would kill Catherine. And then he had done the unforgiveable. He had called her mother, her beloved mother a _whore_. Bursting out from the closet; Mary had feebly tried to shove her father away from her mother.

And so he had turned his rage on her.

It had always been a comfort to her mother that she had been able to protect Mary for this long. Her mother had always been an ocean of calm, her brown eyes never displaying a flicker of anything but warmth. It had always infuriated her father, the fact that no matter what he did, Catherine would be calm. He could use any insult; hit her anywhere and she would be calm. At fourteen, Mary hadn't known this. She didn't know that she would take away one of the only comforts remaining to Catherine.

The voices had come to her then. They were sweet, beautiful voices with a melody not belonging to this world. Nothing that beautiful could belong to the world that Mary lived in. They had comforted her; the same feelings washing over Mary as if it was her mother running her fingers through her curls once more. They informed her that she had a purpose in life. Through suffering she would learn to understand.

The same year that her father turned to beating her, her mother committed suicide.

_Mary had woken up from her nap; hearing a thud from the room next door. For once everything was silent. Her heart had beaten quickly, excitement racing through her. Were her parents at peace with each other – for once? _

_The door to their bedroom had been open, her father's figure standing over something. With a start, Mary realized that it was someone. That someone being her mother, lying in a puddle of warm liquid. _

"_Mama! Mama!" Rushing past her father, Mary had dropped to her knees. Taking her mother's still form in her lap, Mary had stroked her mother's cheek desperately. She was cold, colder than Mary had ever known a person could be. _

"_Why won't she respond? Tell me father, tell me!" She had screamed, hot tears flowing down her cheeks._

_He had turned his back in reply. _

It felt as if her world had crashed; the already existing creaks tearing apart the fragile glass that made up her world. Without her mother, she had lost her compass. Catherine had been the force guiding her; urging her to take life for what it was instead of fighting against it.

After that, life had gone by in a blur.

To Mary, happiness was no longer something that existed. Rather it was a myth, a myth that non-believers believed in. True people who believed in God only knew suffering, never happiness. Happiness was for sinners.

There were some nights where Mary had thrown herself on to her bed, curling up into a ball. Wrapping her arms about herself; she had felt an overwhelming rage against her father. And she couldn't help but wish – wish that it had been her father was the one who had thrown himself to the depths of Hell through suicide instead of her mother.

Did not every person have their own cross to bear? The sins of her father would hang on her shoulders. It was her cross to bear. It was the cross that her mother had not been able to bear. And who could dare to blame her? Mary had decided to accept it with a resigned attitude, passing through life surviving instead of living.

It was easy to be locked into perpetual survival. As long as Mary didn't express her feelings, make a movement out of order, speak unless spoken to, she would survive. It wasn't hard to escape her father's notice. If she were lucky, he would forget about her entirely, along with the fact that he even had a daughter in the first place. Instead she was a plant.

A lifeless plant that could be part of the scenery.

That's what she was.

Until the day had come when Mary had snapped. She had come home after school to find her father destroying the last existing photographs that Mary had of her mother. After her mother died, Henry had promptly thrown out any picture of Catherine, even if it contained a blurry view of any part of her. Hidden underneath her bed, she had only taken them out during the night while her father had been out with his latest _putana_.

And yet he had managed to find them. Having needed money after discovering his flask was empty; Henry had begun to search her room. It was then that he had discovered the pictures tucked away underneath her bed. Intently he was ripping them apart into tiny shreds, making the pictures beyond the point where they could be taped back together.

In a flurry she had flown at him. It was as if the devil himself had possessed her; a violent rage taking over Mary's senses. Her world was black, spotted with red as she focused on her father. She had tried to claw at his face with her hands, kicking at him, screaming and spitting at him. Anything that she could do to hurt him, Mary tried to do.

Henry had thrown her out of the apartment for her insolence.

That night she had wandered through the park near their apartment complex. Her clothes had been ripped from the beating she had received before he had thrown her out. Welts covered her thin legs, along with a collection of welts along her collarbone. Her eye had throbbed; Mary hardly able to keep it open. Taking a seat on the earliest bench that she could find, Mary had rested on her least abused side. That was when _he_ had found her.

_Charles. _

He was a friend of her father's, one that she had only met occasionally when he came over to play poker with her father. Catherine had never approved of him; trying her best to keep Mary out of his sight, especially as she had aged.

Mary had never quite understood why his eyes would linger on her retreating figure before Catherine could whisk her to another room. Charles was married, despite his frequent visits with Henry to the whorehouse in the neighborhood. Her mother had always urged her to pray for him in vain hopes that Charles would see the error in his ways.

That was always how her mother had dealt with someone. Whether she loved them or despised them, she would pray for them. On her knees, Catherine would have her head bent over the rosary entwined about her fingers; praying silently for hours. She would never show her feelings towards those she disliked. Anger was a sin in her eyes. It was her motto to always be sweet; never to allow her smile to falter.

Charles's was nearly as large of a man as her father was. Reaching 6'2, he had been easily able to overpower Mary in her fragile state. His hands had been rough; along with being stained by the oil that seemed to be embedded on to his palms. Mary remembered that he worked on cars, owning a car repair shop nearby.

Shuddering, Mary grimaced. Her mother's tolerance was something she hadn't grasped entirely. As hard as she tried, she couldn't pray for him. She just _couldn't_.

And God knows she tried.

Every time she closed her eyes, she would see his face.

In her mind, his face had turned into a non-entity; a blur of features in a desperate attempt for her mind to protect itself from what she could not take. If only her mother were there to tell her what she should do. Surely she would have known.

There were some days when the face would blend with that of her father's. The two were beginning to blend into one entity in her mind. Mary would find it hard to breathe in those moments, gasping in shallow pants for air. Desperately she would claw at her throat; trying to free herself from the image.

His eyes held an unnatural spark in them; one that belonged to a follower of the Devil. Through the entire time he had forced himself into her, he had never broken his gaze. It was as if he were trying to devour her very soul with his eyes alone. Shivering, Mary forced herself to concentrate on the blur of vehicles passing through the street.

It had been a month since then. She had only been able to change her clothes once since then, finding an abandoned jacket on one of the various benches she slept on. It was far too large for her; the sleeves ending at the tips of her fingers. For once Mary had been relieved that it was early fall, a few weeks remaining before winter arrived.

She had felt the changes in her body. At seventeen, Mary wasn't ignorant of the birds and the bees. The right Raoul had raped her; she doubted that he had thought to use protection. Her breasts had become tender; swelled ever so slightly beneath the white blouse she wore. It was ripped at the shoulder; a number of scars covering her skin.

At least she hadn't had her time of the month yet. Mary had been anxious about the time that was approaching; until she had taken note of the changes happening to her. She had been worried about where she would find cloth to clean up with, her underwear hardly enough to cover her for very long. At least she was wearing dark denim jeans; the fabric clinging to her legs.

Shuddering, Mary screwed her eyes shut tightly. She still had a mark from where his fingers had dug into the tender skin of her inner thigh. Her purity had been stolen from her. She was the same as Eve. It was a shame that she carried deep inside of her heart.

Now it was a shame she carried inside her belly.

There were days when she allowed herself to dream. What did the future hold for her? Or for the child that she was carrying? It was her worst fear that the child would resemble his father, not just in looks, but in the soul. Would the child be a monster, born out of sin?

She was _filthy._

He was _filthy._

Would the child be filthy in their sin too?

There was a time when Mary had desired nothing more than to become a nun. To spend her time in the sacred walls of a convent, fiddling her days away with prayer called to her. It was there that she would have found peace. Nestled among the sisters, it would have been the soothing balm to the wounds etched into her heart.

That was denied to her now.

Each and every child was a lamb to the Shepard. Still, she felt fear gnawing away at her. What would happen as she progressed farther into her pregnancy? What would her father do if she went crawling back to him? What would _she _do to raise this child?

The voices were silent to her barrage of questions. Mary had come to expect this, as unwelcome a reality as it might be. They would not reply with the answers that she sought. It was because her body was soiled by him. How could that vile creature be a child of the Lord? Surely he had been misled, straying away from the path that God had set out for him.

Placing her hand against her stomach, Mary shook her head slowly. She would place her trust in the Lord, as she always had. This was what her mother would want her to do. Her mother had never lost faith, even in her darkest moments.

Her body ached as she moved to stand; Mary rubbing the back of her neck. She couldn't stay in front of the coffee shop much longer. People would always stare; not that she paid much attention to them. It wasn't as if they cared or would understand.

Blindly she began to make her way down the narrow streets, winding about through unfamiliar territory. Fear wasn't something that she felt. A chilly breeze swept about her causing strands of her hair to blow about her face. Squinting her eyes, Mary struggled to see a few feet in front of her.

She had always had a problem with her eyesight. The problem was only made worse considering the fact she had left her contacts at home when Henry had forced her out. Pausing, Mary blinked as shadows suddenly covered the ragged sidewalk.

That was when she found it.

Nestled among the barren trees was a magnificent church. Stone lined the base of it; leading up to an entirely white building. The roof peaked at the top to contain a bell, one that would be rung twice a day. There were stone pillars in the front; followed by three arches leading back to the entrance.

Her feet guided her up the set of stairs, Mary taking in the sight in a daze. Placing her hand on the doorknob, Mary bit down on to her bottom lip. What if she were rejected? Could God reject her from entering his sacred home? She was filthy now, undeserving of entering his home. Bowing her head, Mary's feet won the war between her heart and her mind.

Creaking the door open; Mary took a hesitant step into the entrance hall. Her nerves were melting away from her, peace wriggling its way into her heart. It had been three years since she had been in a church. Her father had turned his back on religion once her mother had passed, not bothering to take her back to the place she considered her sacred home.

It was also a place that reminded her of her mother.

"Mi Amor, you must kneel." She had instructed Mary patiently the first time they had gone to pray together. It was in a church that Catherine had taught Mary to say the rosary; the two of them kneeling before a statue of Mary.

It was a beautiful, serene time. Those were the memories that Mary cherished. The times spent with her mother or in solitude, praying. To find oneself they had to pray. If they believed in prayer; all of their fears, all of their feelings would be given up to God.

There were stained glass in every window; each depicting a different scene from the Bible. Along with this, tucked away in the four corners of the room were life size statues. One was of the Virgin Mary cradling her son, another of Saint Raphael, one of Saint Francis, and one of Him dying on the cross.

Instinctively Mary knew where to go.

The confession was sequestered off from the altar in a room lying behind it, covered by a thick red curtain. Mary hoped that the priest would be there. Though if she had to wait for him to appear, she wouldn't mind. Time was something that she had an abundance of.

"_Mama, mama why do they look so sad?" Mary had observed gravely. There had been a number of people waiting outside the confession that day; each having their head bowed in thought. _

"_We must pray for them Mary. They are poor souls trying to find the light once more." Catherine had responded; caressing her cheek. _

Shaking her head, Mary sighed. The past would never stay in the past, would it? Memories of her mother would always continue to haunt her mother; no matter what she did.

Quietly her feet padded across the stone flooring, Mary gently sliding open the door to the confession. Perching on the edge of the wooden bench, her chest heaved as she exhaled. She felt as if she couldn't breathe. How was she going to explain? What in the world was she going to say?

Firmly she pressed her lips together into a thin line. Her mother had always called it her "prune face", trying her best to coax a smile from Mary. Catherine had urged bravery, no matter the situation. She wouldn't have been proud to say Mary displaying her weakness; having a slight tremble about her lips, her heart beating faster, and tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

No, she would not have been proud at all of Mary in that moment.

Her fingers curled about the rosary beads that rested in her lap. They were the only item she had managed to take with her since being thrown out. Ever since her mother had died, Mary had carried Catherine's rosary with her at all times. It brought her strength, along with comfort.

'Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.' She would be brave, as her mother would expect her to be. Holding her head high, Mary stared blankly ahead of her. Her cool eyes roamed over the wooden paneling; tracing where every scratch had been indented into the texture.

Only inches away from her was a man. Separated by the thin lattice; Mary swallowed nervously. The silence hung in between them; Mary's lips parting slowly. She could do this, couldn't she? He was a man of God. If there was anyone that could help her, it would be him. He would set her on the right path; he would guide her.

She felt parched then; her throat dry as if she hadn't drank for weeks. 'Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.' Mary inhaled silently, urging herself to say something. She squeezed the beads tighter in between her shaking fingers.

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned."


End file.
